


Only One at the Finish Line

by objectlesson



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alpha Harry, Alpha Louis, Alpha/Alpha, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, American AU, Angst, Dirty Talk, Dysphoria, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Time, High School, M/M, Mild/Mentioned Fertility Kink, Mild/Mentioned Gender Play, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Outdoor Sex, Pining, Prom, Prom Night
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-02
Updated: 2019-03-02
Packaged: 2019-11-07 22:22:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17969144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/objectlesson/pseuds/objectlesson
Summary: “Whatdon’t I know?!” Louis shouts, and then Harry is rounding on him, close enough that he can feel the heat of his body, the rage and the glory and the pain of it so close that it blinds him.“I want to be another alpha’s omega,” is what he says, and it comes out like something reckless, something wild. Like he doesn't care anymore if Louis hates him or not, if Louisunderstands, he just needs to speak his truth aloud to darkness, to the slender pines that surround them like a jury panel.





	Only One at the Finish Line

**Author's Note:**

> I love alpha/alpha fic! Written for the prompt " Person A and person B have been friends since they were kids. Everything changes when Person B presents as an alpha some time after person A does, and suddenly becomes moody and confrontational. Person A vowed never to become a knothead alpha like the ones who bullied them both as kids, so he’s really hurt and confused when Person B starts acting differently. Turns out Person B is secretly devastated becuse he thinks being an alpha will ruin his chances with Person A, who he’s loved for years. They go on a hike with the intention of talking. Other things happen." 
> 
> I deviated a bit from the original prompt, but most of it is there! I hope the prompter enjoys! 
> 
> Thank you to my amazing beta <3

—-

For the first time in this whole life, Louis is attending a stupid school function _alone._

What's worse is that it’s his junior prom, which he is _required_ to go to, so he can’t even wiggle his way out of the obligation. He's stuck buying his own lonely boutonnière and borrowing a stupid tie from his cousin and getting the ugly suit he wore a few years ago for his mother’s wedding refitted because although he hasn’t grown any taller, he _has_ lost a bit of baby fat and filled out in the shoulders, so the whole thing, even if it technically fits, looks terribly wrong now. 

The absurd, nonsensical rituals of pre-prom preparation would be tolerable— _hilarious_ , even—if he wasn’t stuck doing them with only his frazzled mom and his whiney sisters for company, but he _is_ because _someone_ decided to break his three-years’-long tradition with Louis of quietly mocking school events from the bleachers over tiny stolen bottles of liquor in favor of taking a _girl_. _Someone,_ who for no discernible reason at all, decided to _ditch_ Louis all together and leave him wondering what the fuck he’s done wrong to deserve this weird, new, sudden silent treatment. 

That someone is (was?) Louis’s best friend, Harry. 

They’ve been close ever since the first or second week of freshman year, when they met during detention. Louis was in for tardiness, Harry for _plagiarism,_ even though to this day, he insists that the similarities between his essay and Liam Payne’s (the top student in his class) were _entirely_ coincidental. Louis thought that Harry, who was very scrawny and curly-headed at the time, was cute, so he talked to him. He figured out they both liked musicals and soccer, neither of which were particularly common interests among their other classmates, and from that moment on, they were pretty much inseparable. 

Until _now_ , of course. Which is extremely unfortunate because _aside_ from the whole being best friends thing, Louis _also_ happens to be secretly in love with Harry. 

Everything between them changed when Harry presented as an alpha. Like, leading up to this last semester, Harry and Louis were their normal, usual selves. Harry was cute and charming and dorky and had a million potential girlfriends and boyfriends he blushed about and dismissed every time Louis brought them up. He wore soft, oversized sweaters and lots of bracelets on his wrists, his hair was fluffy and overgrown and always sweet-smelling, and he had a massive growth spurt over a span of six months, so instead of his usual slacks and jeans, he was stuck wearing leggings most of the time, which Louis _loved_ because they hugged his cute little bum. They’d play videogames or kick around a half-deflated soccer ball in his backyard after school or just talk about stuff up in his room until Louis had to go pick up his sisters from ballet. Then they’d text for the few hours after dinner and homework but before falling asleep, doing it all over again the next day, all the way until the weekend, when Harry would sleep over, if Louis was lucky. 

Everything was good. Fine. Louis presented as an alpha in October, and aside from the awkward boners that almost _always_ seemed to happen at Harry’s house and the whole shitty second-puberty thing, it wasn’t _that_ traumatic. It certainly didn't change anything about their dynamic or routine. In _fact,_ they had a big _conversation_ at their favorite cheap diner in town about how no matter _what_ happened to them or how their biology changed, they’d always be friends. They pinkie-promised over Louis’s greasy plate of fries. He can still picture Harry’s face, his wide green eyes and gorgeous, stupidly huge mouth around the words, _Promise me you’ll never end up some knot-head who won't talk to me, that you won’t ever get all obsessed with wrestling and catcalling omegas at bars or whatever?_

He’d been so sweet, so earnest and genuinely worried about it that Louis’s heart had broken a little. As if _anything_ could ever stop him from being Harry's friend, from cherishing him above all else. _Dude,_ he’d said, squeezing their hands together as if to secure the vow. _I promise I’ll never be that sort of alpha. And you, too, right? You’ll never turn into some arrogant asshole who only cares about getting his dick wet?_

Harry had been scandalized, giggling into his palm as he clapped his free hand over his mouth. _I won’t present as an alpha,_ he said then, chasing the straw of his milkshake to suck some up, making Louis jealous of it even though it was an inanimate object. _But if I do, I promise._

The whole conversation feels surreal, in retrospect. Haunting, even, because Harry has gone and broken that sweet, salty, french-fry-and-milkshake promise, like, _ten times over_ , and Louis still doesn't even have any fucking idea _why._ Louis upheld _his_ end of the bargain, personality intact, totally willing to go to prom with Harry jokingly like they’ve gone to every other school dance, even though it hurts his soul to joke about this sort of thing, but whatever. _He_ hasn't turned into a knot-head. 

But Harry…Harry sort of _has._ And aside from it shocking and generally confusing Louis, it’s also shattered his heart into a billion tiny pieces. 

First, Harry got sort of cold and mopey and stopped sleeping over on the weekend. Louis didn't think much of it; _he_ certainly remembers the weird hormone surges and mood swings and how difficult it was to be around other people and act normal, let alone around _Harry_ , who he _desperately_ wants all the time, even when he isn't paralyzingly horny. But _then_ Harry kept making up excuses or transparently inventing things he had to do after school when they’d usually hang out, until Louis just stopped asking all together. They literally only see each other at school now, and even then, Harry avoids him to hang out with his _new_ group of popular, attractive friends who he goes to sporting events and weekend road trips and _prom_ with, apparently.

He even _looks_ different, skin darkening a few shades from so many trips to the beach, hair longer and face more chiseled, arms thick and toned and sweat-glistening in his plaid flannels, which he’s chopped all the sleeves off of. He looks _older_ but also harder, sharper. A more masculine and crisp-edged version of the soft, silly boy who was Louis’s best friend, and Louis still thinks he’s unfairly attractive at the same time the changes scare him, push him away. Make him feel like shit about himself because, _god,_ he didn't realize he was so _disposable._ That he could be tossed away like Harry's outgrown shirt, like the fuzzy hand-knitted beanies he’s traded for fedoras, for the headscarves he now uses to keep his curls at bay when he’s playing soccer with _someone else._

With Taylor Swift. His gorgeous, tall, fiercely blonde and terrifyingly red-lipped prom date, who _also_ happens to be an alpha. 

Louis tries hard not to mind that Harry’s going with someone else. He wants to be a supportive friend and all that. He even tries not to be shocked or offended when that someone else happens to be a _girl_ , despite all previous thoughts or predictions or _hopeful wishes_ about the sort of people Harry might want to date. However, the fact that Taylor’s _also an alpha_ is what really stings. The only way Louis has been able to justify Harry’s sudden behavior change, _specifically_ the way that he’s acted in their friendship, is because he's been telling himself that Harry’s just trying to find and understand his own identity _away_ from the influence of another alpha. 

But now he’s gone and _asked one to prom!_ And they look positively _chummy,_ with their matching dress and tie, Taylor’s jasmine corsage the same lovely pure white as Harry’s boutonnière. As _soon_ as Louis spots them over the punch bowl, he immediately feels sick. Harry looks perfectly, stomach-burningly handsome, and Taylor is stunning in her floor-length red dress. Most of the other girls milling around look like the high schoolers they are, but somehow, even though she’s showing _less_ skin, Taylor looks like a real adult, some celebrity on a Hollywood red carpet. Harry has his big hand on her lower back (Louis bitterly remembers that hand in his own as they pinkie-promised), and the whole thing _hurts._ Louis doesn't even think they’re properly dating or anything (it doesn't happen that often between alphas, at least not when they’re this _young_ , and he _knows_ this because he researched it all in spite of himself, wondering if he and Harry could be some exception to biology), but it doesn’t _matter._ The fact that he’s been forgotten in favor of this picture-perfect image, that he’s lurking in the shadows underneath sad silver balloons and sagging streamers wearing a wilted pink rose and a hand-me-down _tie_ while Harry _positively glows_ is just…Louis doesn’t even have _words,_ really. His heart is aching in this unnamable, beyond-language way that feels bone-deep, blood poisoned. 

He’s spent years longing to be more than Harry’s friend, but he’d gladly take that title right now, without complaint. If he’s brutally honest about it, he’d take even less, like, being his _acquaintance_ , someone he still _looks_ at, smiles at, big and cheesy, so that his dimple shows. _Anything_ but ignored, pushed away. His grief twists up tight and ugly in his stomach, and suddenly the stuffy auditorium they’re holding prom at feels insufferably, _lethally_ hot. 

Louis buttons his suit jacket and excuses himself outside, hoping that if he moves quickly enough, he won’t have to see the starched white of Harry’s dress shirt get hazy through a layer of indignant, embarrassing tears. 

—-

It’s cold outside, cold enough that Louis can see his breath in hot, misty puffs as he exhales and sits down on the low cement wall that flanks the venue, gazing out over the sports fields, which are glittery with dew. They’re surrounded by a dense outcropping of trees that everyone calls _The Woods,_ as if it’s a real forest and not strategic landscaping to hide the ugly concrete flume that winds its way through the brush like a jugular vein. He wishes he had a cigarette, even though he doesn't really smoke; he’s just craving _something_ to do with his hands that isn’t willfully rubbing at his face, trying to stop tears from miserably welling up. 

He _hates_ loving Harry, he decides. Everything about it hurts. Stabs him deep and twists the knife, leaves him a stumbling mess, breathing in cold, clean air desperately like it might cure him of this ache. He’s imagining the chill of it slicing through him and destroying all his unsavory feelings when a door slams somewhere, and he flinches, receding into the shadows in fear of being caught lurking out here by some chaperone. 

It’s not an adult that sulks out, though. It’s another teenager, cutting across the parking lot, hopping the wall a good ten feet from where Louis is frozen, watching. The figure kicks his way down the hillside to the athletic fields, and it’s only once Louis has a proper distance and those stadium lights blaring down on the silhouette that he allows himself to accept that this person is _Harry,_ that it’s not wishful thinking or some pitiful hallucination. He’s just so _used_ to seeing him in places—even places where he’s _not_ —that he didn’t trust himself. But there’s something unmistakable about those long legs, gangly even if his thighs are plump, shoulders curled over defensively, as if to protect his heart in the same way a ribcage does. His head is bent, his Chelsea boots leave streaks of darkness as he trips across the dewy field, and it’s without even fully recognizing he’s moving that Louis realizes he’s _following_ him. 

Louis is breathless, eyes squinting in the sudden bright light humming overhead, making him think of the handful of football games that he and Harry went to together if only to escape to The Woods to get stoned or talk about ghosts or dream of a world outside this suffocating little bubble. He’s nearly coughing by the time he reaches Harry, just feet outside of where they used to sneak away together. “Wait,” he chokes out, cold fingers biting into the damp fabric of Harry’s suit jacket, trying to keep him in place. “ _Wait._ What…what are you doing?” 

Harry rounds on him, eyes locking so that he can bear down on Louis with a fierce, incredulous gaze. “What am _I_ doing? _I’m_ just trying to get some air. You… _you’r_ e the one who _followed_ me out here,” he spits, stumbling away from Louis, pupils wide and shot. 

His voice feels like velvet, if velvet were barbed and bleeding. Louis recoils, mouth hanging open in disbelief because _this_ is the boy who used to be his best friend. Who he wrapped his arms around and held when his parents announced that they were getting divorced, whose hair he’s held from his face while he bent over the toilet, sick from drinking too much, from the flu, from whatever. Louis knows the dewy hollow of his throat, the clench of his hands, the way his cheeks heat up and turn pink while his eyes search the floor when he’s feeling embarrassed or pretty. Louis _knows_ him;he doesn’t deserve to be shoved away.

“Harry, _Jesus,”_ he barks, raising his fists perhaps in self-defense. “What the _fuck_ hashappened to you these past few months? Because…it’s not you, s’not what I remember.” 

And he's expecting something different, more resistance. To have his face spit upon or punched, Harry’s eyes flashing as he yells, _You don’t know me anymore, Louis, fuck off,_ or, even worse, _Leave me alone, you’re so fucking obsessed with me, what’s your problem?_ But that’s not what happens. 

Instead, Harry crumples. His face turns dark and sad before he turns away, ducking into the wide, trembling splay of his palms. “ _I know,_ ”he admits, voice coming out like something scraped and lymph-dappled, wet even if it doesn't want to be. “It’s hard…it’s been shitty,” he blurts, kicking up manicured lawn with the toe of his boot. “I know I've been acting weird, and I hate it…and I miss you.” 

Louis’s stomach flips as his blood freezes. He watches his exhalations mingle with Harry’s and wishes so badly for it to be a real kiss instead of the ghost of one. “I miss you, _too,_ ”he tells him, cautiously. “But I’m not the one who, like, gave up on our friendship or whatever. I’ve been trying to figure out what’s up, and you keep pushing me away.” 

Harry looks up at him mournfully, and the eye contact is brutal, stings so hard that Louis has to take a tremulous step backward as if he’s been hit. Grass squelches under his dress shoe. “That’s not... _fuck,_ I didn’t want you to feel that way,” Harry mutters. 

“Well,” Louis says, heart pounding. “That’s how it’s felt.” 

They stand off for a moment, panting and staring at each other under harsh cold lights that drown out the moon, which might be watching were they somewhere more remote. _What do you want from me,_ Louis thinks. He’s working up the energy to say such a thing when Harry cards a hand through his gelled, overlong hair and mumbles, “You probably don’t wanna hear this, but m’sorry, for what it's worth. It’s been a _fucked up_ year, actually.” 

Then he’s walking away, hunched like he’s made of shame, and Louis is _still_ following. 

“Harry… _Harry!_ ”he shouts after him, skidding on the grass. It _can’t_ end here, if his former best friend is going to ignore him for the rest of eternity for seemingly _no_ reason, he _deserves_ an explanation. He deserves _something._

 _“_ M’gonna find the wash in The Woods,” Harry announces, like this is an answer to so many silent questions. “You can come, if you want.” 

And Louis wants more than that, _lifetimes_ more, but he’ll take this. He follows, and he follows.

—-

They walk side by side but not necessarily together, far enough apart that their elbows won’t brush, even if they trip. Louis says nothing, though his heart is pounding so hard that his chest aches, and the only thing he thinks that might alleviate it is if he allowed any of the frantic, rapidly brewing questions rattling around inside his brain to burst forth. _What happened to us? What did I do wrong? Are you okay?_ and then, surging up between every other thought like a choppy storm wave, _Do you_ really _miss me? Because, god, do I miss you. Every fucking day. So much it feels like it’s killing me._

But they remain in silence, save for the twigs and dead leaves crunching under their feet, the distant thrum of bass growing softer and dimmer as they walk further and further away from the familiarity of the auditorium. Louis is biting his cheek so hard that the inside of his mouth tastes metallic when Harry stops in his tracks, peering off the trail, where the trees are darker, thicker. “I think it’s that way,” he announces, as if he’s _certain._ Maybe he is. Louis’s none the wiser; he hasn't hung out with Harry recently enough to _know_ what he gets up to in his spare time, which new skills or talents have cropped up in his absence.

“Are you sure?” Louis asks, squinting. 

“No,” Harry replies, kicking at the mulch on the ground a bit before decidedly striding into the night. “It’s, like…an alpha instinct thing.” 

Louis rolls his eyes. “Are you fucking _kidding_ me? You _know…_ you _knew at some point_...that all that shit is _fake_ ,” he grumbles, tripping after Harry anyway. “The psychological differences are, like, totally made up,” he reminds him, hating the sharp edge in this voice. “Remember?” 

“I dunno,” Harry says after a minute, voice dark and broody. “I don't really know what I believe anymore.” 

And that should make Louis _angry,_ but instead it just chokes him up. 

They wander around for a long time, bumping into things but never each other. Louis is cold and frustrated and _hurt_ , and just when he’s about to shove Harry and tell him that his imaginary “alpha instincts” are garbage, they stumble onto the wash, which appears out of nothingness, gray and insidious as a snake. “There it is,” Harry whispers breathlessly, shivering as he gets closer, steps tentative. “There’s no water in it…s’empty.” 

“What, were you expecting us to take a swim?” Louis snaps, feeling _crazy,_ feeling wounded _._ He’s been following Harry Styles around the woods silently, like a submissive _dog,_ like a coyote tracking the scent of a sick deer to pick off from the herd. Like something weak, a scavenger, but this is the boy he used to call his _best friend_ only weeks before. It seems like such a far-away memory, and he can’t _stand_ it anymore. “Harry,” he says quietly, folding his arms in front of himself and trying to still the reflexive chattering of his teeth so that he can speak without his voice cracking. “What the fuck are we doing out here? Why can’t…why can’t things be the way they _were?”_ his voice breaking in spite of his efforts.

Harry turns to him, jaw set tight, eyes flashing. “Because things are _different_ now!” 

“How?” Louis yells, forgetting his attempt at stoicism, at not falling apart. The tourniquet has broken, and he’s bleeding everywhere, staining the forest floor black. “It’s only different because _you’re_ making it that way, _you’re_ different—“

“Yes! Yeah, I fucking am!” Harry shouts back, spinning on his heel to stalk closer to the wash. Louis’s shaking as he watches him sit down on the concrete edge of it, legs dangling off the side to where there is apparently no water. “That’s just the way it is,” Harry adds then, miserably, and if Louis had an _ounce_ of self-preservative instincts in him where Harry is concerned, he would leave right now. Lick his wounds, try his hardest to fall out of love. 

But that's not what he does. He slowly, carefully makes his way closer, lowering himself to sit next to Harry. Side by side but not necessarily together. “I’m sorry, H. M’not actually, like… _mad_ about any of this. I’m just really confused, and I really, really miss you, and I sort of…wonder, I guess? If I did anything wrong...to push you away.” 

Harry sniffles, wiping his face on the back of his hand, and Louis wishes so badly that he had a pocket square to offer him or, like, _his own sleeve,_ anything. He’s aching, his heart is broken, but more than anything, he wants to make it all better again. 

He’s in the middle of thinking of something else comforting to say when Harry inhales with a wet-sounding rattle and mumbles, “You didn’t do _anything wrong_ , Lou _._ It’s all me. This...me presenting as an alpha…it just…things are different.” 

“We said…we _promised_ each other that we wouldn’t turn into knot-head assholes. I guess I just wanna know,” Louis’s breath catches, but he presses on, “like, what _changed,_ what could be more important than—”

“Jesus,” Harry chokes out, hiding his face in his hands, curls coming unglued and getting everywhere as he musses them. “I really fucked it all up, didn’t I.” 

“I dunno about that...maybe,” Louis hedges, fiddling with the ill-fitting hem of his slacks. “I would be less likely to call it a fuck up and more likely to call it a _misunderstanding_ if you would just, like…talk to me. We used to be _friends,_ right? I don't understand what happened.” 

Harry sighs, and the moment passes so slowly that Louis isn't even expecting a response. He’s listening to the crickets and counting his tense breaths when Harry says, “S’not… _easy_ for me. Not the way it is for you.” 

Louis waits for more, but it never comes. “What’s not easy?” he finally whispers. 

“Being an alpha,” Harry hisses, as if it makes sense, as if it _means_ anything. “It’s just not the _same_ for us, and you’ll never _get it,_ and that makes it, like, _impossible_ to talk about.” 

His breath is coming out hard and fast by the end of it, and Louis’s dizzy, probably from holding his _own_ breath. He can smell Harry’s cologne when he inhales shakily, it’s different than his usual shampoo and deodorant and boy-smell, and something about it hurts so badly that Louis’s words sound barbed when they come out. “ _Try me.”_

Harry looks at him then, and it’s not the hard-edged defiance he expects but something frantic, panicked, _scared,_ even. “Fucking fine!” he growls, everything sounding ragged with tears. “Since you’ve already decided we aren’t friends.” Louis wants to throw up because _he’s_ not the one who decided they aren’t friends anymore, but before he can yell about it, Harry blurts, “Being an alpha is _easy_ for you! You’re confident _..._ when you walk into a room, _everyone_ fucking looks, they all know your name _,_ you’re...you’re already _like_ that, the sort of person people are drawn to!”

It snags, desperate and raw, and Louis is taken aback by how clearly Harry _believes_ what he’s saying. “What are you even _talking about?!”_ he sputters, hands gripping the edge of the wash so hard that the grit of the cement stings. “M’not...that doesn’t matter, _none_ of that shit does? You don’t have to—”

Harry throws his arms up into the air like he’s giving up. “I didn’t _think_ I’d present as an alpha...I didn’t _want to!”_ he screams so loudly that it echoes, voice so shrill that it hurts. Louis lets it hang in the air between them for a moment because it doesn’t make _sense,_ he doesn't know what to _say._ It never occurred to him that Harry was acting weird because he _didn’t want_ to be an alpha, rather than settling into the role a little too comfortably. 

“If you didn’t want…then _why_ are you posturing like this?! Trying to start fights with me and ignoring me and _tanning_ and _working out_ and—”

“Fuck you, Louis,” Harry grits out, hiding his face in his hands again, shoulders trembling. “I knew you wouldn’t get it. You have _no idea_ what it’s like. I don’t...I’m _not_ what m’supposed to be. I have to fake it, but I don’t know _how..._ m’doing the best I can.”

Louis makes an incredulous sound. “It’s in your _own head_ that alphas have to be hard and tough or whatever! You can still wear your bracelets, you can still like pink, you can _still be my fucking friend,_ you don't have to _perform_ some idea of what you think alphas are to _be an alpha._ You can just _be_ how you are,” Louis explains, and Harry’s gasping, suddenly standing up on his awkwardly long, endless legs and stumbling away from Louis like he’s been burnt. 

“You have no _idea_ what you’re talking about,” he snarls, pacing, worrying his fingers through his hair. Louis stands, too, wanting so badly to grab him by his shoulder and _stop_ him, _shake_ him, _kiss_ him on his stupidly perfect mouth, even if it keeps saying things that hurt so fucking badly. “You don’t _know—”_

 _“What_ don’t I know?!” Louis shouts, and then Harry is rounding on him, close enough that he can feel the heat of his body, the rage and the glory and the pain of it so close that it blinds him. 

“I want to be another alpha’s _omega_ ,” is what he says, and it comes out like something reckless, something wild. Like he doesn't care anymore if Louis hates him or not, if Louis _understands,_ he just needs to speak his truth aloud to darkness, to the slender pines that surround them like a jury party. 

“What?” Louis asks, his body reacting even if the rest of him hasn’t processed it yet. He's suddenly hot and shaky, cheeks burning as their eyes lock and Harry searches him for something, perhaps judgment. “You—”

“It’s not _just_ that I don’t want to be an alpha, it’s that I _want_ alphas, I want...I always have,” he babbles before slumping again, face in his palms so that Louis can’t see him, and, _god,_ he wants to, he wants to see him so fucking _badly_. “It’s so fucked up,” Harry whimpers.

There’s something like hope rising in Louis’s chest before he remembers the blood-red flash of a silk dress and corsage matching Harry’s tie. “Oh,” he says, the reality dawning on him, turning sick and sharp in his stomach. “Does that mean you and Taylor are—”

“What?! No!” Harry cuts him off, voice muffled but emphatic. “We’re just friends... _if_ that. She said she would help me blend in, show me how to be an alpha and all that, since m’destined to be shit at it.” 

Louis’s relief is short-lived, replaced almost instantly with another surge of jealousy. “Harry, you could’ve just asked _me_ , you know, like, if you wanted help with any of that stuff. I would’ve been happy to help you, could probably do a better job than _she_ would...I used to be your best friend.” 

Harry scoffs. “Louis, I needed to get _away_ from you, obviously.” 

And Louis is so fiercely and profoundly hurt by the easy, blasé way in which Harry says this that it feels like being _shot_ ; his hand flies up subconsciously to splay over his heart, to check for an exit wound, the slick of gore. His throat is thick and aching, his eyes are stinging, and he's most definitely about to cry, but before he’s dissolved into it, he manages to get out, “But... _why?”_

Harry makes a desperate, lost sort of sound in his throat before he’s striding in toward Louis like he might hit him. Instead, he fists into his suit jacket and pulls him in by his lapels until they’re close enough that Louis can taste the minty, terrified heat of his breath huffing out over his lips before he’s drowning in the real thing: Harry kissing him, lips soft over the hard edge of his teeth, their chins bumping together. Louis’s whole mouth is gonna be bruised, but he doesn't _care,_ he can’t, he just wants this to last forever, wants to fall into the version of the universe where something like this can _happen._

It doesn’t last forever, though; Louis isn’t even sure if it lasts a whole second. As soon as they slam together, Harry’s shoving him away, gasping and leaving him with the tear-salty ghost of a kiss on his lips. “ _That’s_ why,” he confesses, cheeks shiny in the moonlight, eyes wide and wet and mournful. “And you never would have found out if you had just _left me alone_ like I wanted you to, but instead you fucking _pushed,_ you always fucking _push_ and keep pushing, and I _can’t_ fucking be around you, Louis, I _want_ you too badly, and it drives me _crazy_ and—”

Louis can’t hear this, he _won’t._ He grabs Harry by his awful red tie and pulls him in, cupping his sticky cheeks in his palms and dragging him down to his own shoulder, holding him tightly, even as he feebly struggles, shuddering with tears. “Shhh, _fuck,_ Harry, listen to me,” he whispers, pressing his face into his ear, inhaling from his curls. “You have it all wrong. I pushed so much because I _couldn’t_ be away from you...because I want _you_ so badly that it drives _me_ crazy, too. God, I want you so, _so_ fucking badly.” 

Harry tenses, relaxes, and tenses again, like something in his body _knows_ that Louis’s telling the truth, but he can’t fully trust it yet. “Don’t fuck around with me,” he growls, pulling at Louis’s lapels, squeezing his shoulders, leaning his full weight into him so that they both stumble, leaves crunching under their feet. “Don’t just _say_ that when it’s not so _easy,_ when we’re both...when m’not—”

“Shut _up,”_ Louis rasps fiercely, nosing into Harry’s neck where his pulse is thundering. “ _I_ don’t care about any of that, I love you how you _are,_ an alpha or...a different sort of omega? I don’t _care_ ,I just love _you_ , always have.” 

And then they’re kissing again, and it tastes like salt and winter as they're tipping but not falling, like a tree caught in a storm, and Louis thinks that that’s about right. That it’s perfect _,_ even. He smooths his hands over Harry’s body in shock and reverence, his broadened shoulders, the tuck of his waist, up the hot skin of his neck to fist in his curls. Just _feeling_ him, desperate, because he _needs_ to. He needs to know that this is _real._

Harry’s kisses are wet and hungry, his mouth so soft and big as Louis bites it, tongues it open, licks into the searing heaven inside. They push their hips together, and it’s good, but it’s not enough; Louis wants more, even as he worries that if they pause, the fiber of reality will crumble, and he’ll be alone, standing here breathless beside the empty wash. 

It’s Harry who pulls away first, eyes wild and half-lidded as he cups one of his big hands around Louis’s face, holding him steady, thumbing under the cut of his cheekbone. “I always thought, or at least _hoped_ , that you’d want me like this someday,” he whispers urgently, like he needs to get it out _now_ , lest Louis disappear or he loses his nerve.“I thought when I presented as an omega, I’d smell right, _look_ right to you, and you’d want to touch me. But then I _didn’t,_ and it...fuck,” he sobs, voice cracking. “It broke my heart.” 

His words come out fast and frantic and private, ghosting against Louis’s open mouth. Secrets, whispered and full of breath, and Louis wants to swallow every one, keep them safe inside the cage of his ribs. “I wanted you like this _always,_ wanted it more than anything. I didn’t _care_ when you presented as an alpha, it didn’t change _anything_ for me,” he adds, tilting into the damp heat of Harry’s palm, pressing the whole of his body against him. He feels so _good,_ like all their interlocking bits were made to fit like this, like Harry’s body was _always_ supposed to be in his arms. 

“I don’t...it’ll be different,” Harry murmurs, their foreheads flush and grinding, noses bumping together, breath hot, shared, absolving. “Being with me...I won’t be able to satisfy your ruts, I won’t be able to…,” he closes his eyes, trembles, the corners of his lovely mouth downturned. “I won’t be able to get _wet_ for you,” he says then, the words coming out tattered with regret. “I understand if—”

“Harry,” Louis tells him, tongue flicking out to lap at the peak of his upper lip because it’s _so_ hard to stop kissing the boy you love when you can taste his exhalations. “We’ll make it work...I _love_ you, plus,” he starts, breathing in before swallowing thickly. “You turn me on _so_ fucking much, none of that will even be a problem.” 

“I turn you on?” Harry asks, sounding genuinely surprised. It aches in Louis’s chest; Harry has clearly bought into the myth that unless alphas mate to omegas, and vice versa, there will always be something missing. Louis wants so badly to show him how wrong he is. 

“Yes,” he says, kissing Harry, sucking on his tongue until they both groan, pulling away to breathe in messy gales. “I... _god..._ it’s crazy, just being around you, _close_ to you… _love_ the way you smell, the way you taste. Wanna put my mouth everywhere. I’m so, _so_ hard, right now, just from kissing.” 

Harry gasps, pressing closer, and Louis feels the tempered strength of his arms under his own palms as Harry holds back. “I... _Louis._ Can I feel?” he whimpers, and Louis’s stomach plunges so hard that it leaves him dizzy, throbbing. 

“Yes,” he sighs, his grip moving from Harry’s shoulder to his elbow to his hand, which he unglues from his own side to push between them, breath held, fingers trembling. 

Harry freezes, then shudders, and Louis has to bite back a wordless sound. The touch is tentative and terrified, and so, _so_ fucking sweet. Harry bites his own lip as he feels Louis out, squeezing gently, so careful and experimental, palm big and hot even through Louis’s slacks. “God,” he breathes, making a fist as best he can, the contact teasing but still so maddeningly good. “You’re so _warm._ And I...fuck, I can feel your _knot,”_ he marvels, everything hushed as if he’s experiencing a religious rite. 

“See what you do to me?” Louis tells him, petting his hair before moving his hand down to Harry’s throat, where he unbuttons his collar and loosens his tie to kiss the pretty jut of his Adam's apple like he’s always wanted to. 

“Louis,” Harry mumbles, burying his face into the junction between Louis’s neck and shoulder and mouthing wetly there, still clumsily working his cock through his slacks, his motions slow and tender and hungry. “I’ve thought so _much_ about your knot, about…god, about so many things. Can’t believe m’getting to touch.” 

“Tell me what things,” Louis begs, needing to _know_ , palming up the sides of Harry’s neck and into his hair again, which he apparently can’t stop pulling.

“You won't think it’s weird?” Harry asks, hand becoming still save for the solitary sweep of his thumb. It’s not _nearly_ enough, all Louis wants to do is feel him skin to skin, spread him out here on the dirt and grind against him, make him moan. The Woods wasn't where he imagined having Harry for the first time, but he doesn't care anymore, can’t _think_ past how badly he needs him. 

“Of course not,” Louis promises. “I’ve thought about yours, thought about all of you.” 

“Fuck,” Harry whines, breath hot on Louis’s ear as he brushes his lips against the shell of it. “I’ve made myself come _so_ many times dreaming of sucking you. Just holding your cock in my mouth, even when you're soft, tonguing at it until you get hard, until your knot fills my mouth, _chokes_ me,” he confesses, pressing up close, humping the back of his hand while he uses it to feel Louis through his suit. “And I’ve thought of you... _god,_ this is embarrassing, I’ve _dreamt_ of you fucking me, filling my ass up with come, and knotting me. Breeding me,” he finishes on, and, _fuck,_ Jesus fucking Christ, Louis cannot _breathe,_ he’ll never recover from this. 

“Harry,” he groans, kissing him hard, their lips swollen and slick with the bruising force of it. “Can we lie down? Can I touch you? I want all that too, _need_ it,” he pants, and Harry is nodding, stumbling, letting Louis steer him toward his suit jacket which he’s just peeled off and laid out on the ground. “I know it’s not super comfortable, we could go to my house, I guess, but—”

“No, can’t wait, want you here,” Harry slurs, spreading out awkwardly, hair everywhere. He looks so pretty in the moonlight that Louis wants to cry, so instead, he gets down on his hands and knees over him and kisses his face, his pulse, his shoulder, his palm as Harry reaches for him. Everything is clumsy for a moment while they arrange themselves, but it doesn’t matter because it feels so _good,_ so perfect. They end up curled on their sides with their legs entwined, their kisses wet-messy and imprecise. “Can I?” Harry asks shyly at some point, tugging at Louis’s belt with both impatience and prudence. 

“Here,” Louis grunts, struggling out of his belt before tossing it aside, then lying there with his breath stopped as Harry unbuttons his slacks and pulls his zipper down very, very slowly, as if unveiling something miraculous. “You can touch me however you want, m’yours,” Louis assures him, amazed by how easy it is to say things in the dark like this. 

“I love you,”Harry breathes, voice low and broken with awe, and, _fuck,_ the last few weeks and their pain and confusion and holding patterns and uncertainty don’t disappear, but they fade and become obsolete, half-remembered as he says it. 

_And I love you,_ Louis thinks, not trusting his voice to work because Harry’s reaching inside his slacks and boxers to pull his cock out as he licks his lips.

“Oh, Louis,” Harry gulps as he stares down between them, his big hand curled around Louis’s length, littlest finger nestled up against the lewd bulge of his knot. “You’re fucking _perfect..._ just...perfect,” he croaks, brow furrowed and lips shining as they part in awe. 

He plays with him, rubbing his thumb over the shiny slit over and over again, smearing Louis’s pre-cum around until the whole of the crown is coated and glistening, and Louis is _ruined,_ panting, hips pistoning beyond his control. “Your hands, _fuck_ , Harry, so good,” he praises, fisting in his own shirt with one hand, the other tangled in Harry’s hair, worrying the curls to tangles.

Harry’s jacking him off properly now, his fist tight as he works it back and forth over Louis’s shaft, clumsy in a way that doesn’t matter. It feels so good that Louis’s vision whites out every time Harry's grip twists over the top where he’s most sensitive; he knows he’s not going to last very long, not with Harry’s breath on his lips, his mouth so pretty and gasping, like Louis’s pleasure is his own, like it feels so fucking _good_ just to touch him. “You’re so fucking _hot,_ god, love the sounds you make,” Harry babbles, licking at the corner of Louis’s open mouth. “When I slept over, you'd sometimes talk in your sleep...make these little moaning noises? It always made me so hard, and I’d feel so fucking guilty,” he confesses, picking up the pace, working Louis’s cock fast and hard and sloppy. “ _I_ wanted to make you moan...wanted everything.” 

“Harry,” Louis whimpers, tugging him closer by his hair, pulling Harry’s ear to his own panting mouth so that he can hear everything. “M’gonna come, you’re gonna make me come all over your hand,” he rasps, fucking the heat of his palm, abdominal muscles clenching up so hard that it almost _hurts._ And then, just like that, with his lips pressed up against Harry’s temple, Louis finishes, a mess of high, breathy moans that would embarrass him if he didn’t already know that Harry gets off on them. 

He collapses, his body overly sensitive and nervy as Harry continues to touch him with gentle, fleeting fingertips. He’s just exploring, kissing slowly and softly down Louis’s throat, lingering at the powerful thrum of his pulse, pushing his hand into his slacks to cup his sac, then moving his fingers back up to his knot, which is still hard and throbbing. “Louis,” he whispers, laying his head against his chest over his heartbeat, eyes closed. “Can I...I know you came, but can I suck on your knot?” 

His voice sounds so desperate and needy that Louis can’t think of a single reason why he would deny him something he wants so badly, and even though he feels shipwrecked and completely spent, he nods weakly, chest rising and falling. 

Harry mewls deep in his throat before shimmying down, hands all over Louis’s hip, his stomach under his rucked-up dress shirt. He feels Harry’s hot, labored breath ghost over his shaft, then a sharp, desperate intake of breath, and _then,_ like fire, like a flood, Harry’s astounding mouth. 

He opens it wide and wet and sloppy, lips sliding around Louis’s knot, tongue lashing lazily to coat him in spit as he groans so loudly around his mouthful that the hum makes Louis lock up and cry out. He was expecting to be too sensitive to do anything save for wince his way through it, happy just to give himself to Harry, but it actually feels _amazing,_ so good that he’s choking and bucking again, carding his hand through Harry’s curls. The wet spread of his mouth is far enough away from Louis’s sensitive tip that he doesn't feel overwhelmed, just _good,_ lost to the slickness, the softness, Harry’s chorus of little, satisfied moans and purrs and lewd kissing and sucking noises. It’s obvious that this is something he’s yearned for, some culmination of his desire, but aside from feeling _moved_ to give him that, Louis is twitching in pleasure, his cock still partially hard and flexing. “So good, baby,” he murmurs, and Harry keens at the word, breath coming out noticeably ragged. “You like that? When I call you baby?” Louis asks. 

“ _Yes,”_ Harry admits emphatically, licking his lips before lapping at Louis’s cock again, suckling at the side of it since he can’t fit much more in. “I like…I like feeling _pretty,_ I guess. Soft...like an omega.” The last part comes out in a hush, barely audible over Louis’s labored breath, but he’s _so_ glad he heard it, so glad Harry feels safe enough to tell him what he wants, what he likes. 

“My sweet, soft boy,” he whispers hoarsely, tangling his fingers in Harry’s hair and tugging gently before tucking the strands behind his ear so that he can see his jaw working, the gorgeous angled cut of it as he licks and sucks, face crumpling. “Look so pretty sucking your alpha’s knot like that, baby.” 

Harry whimpers, sucks harder, grinds his hips down into the ground like he’s forgotten that they’re in The Woods. “Louis,” he moans as he pops off to breathe, their gazes meeting for a moment of tremulous, searing eye contact. “You’re not just saying that….you really think I’m pretty?” 

“Jesus, _yes,_ the prettiest,” Louis hisses, before hooking a finger into the soft slick of Harry’s mouth. It’s so hot inside, so wet, and he _has_ to kiss him so he hauls him up with a hand in his collar and fits their mouths together. “I wanna touch you,” he whispers when they pull away. “You’ll have to help me, though…let me know if anything feels weird or wrong.” 

Harry nods, rolling onto his back and looking up expectantly, mouth so dark that it looks bloody in the moonlight. “Okay,” he says. “So far, everything feels amazing. I feel…I dunno, like you see me.” 

“I see you, baby,” Louis assures him, so relieved to _recognize_ Harry again, who is still so newly fit and broad and tan but _feels_ softer around the edges, tender in the way he used to, before he presented. Just a silly, sweet boy with floppy curls and a cupid’s bow mouth, a boy who likes flowers and pink and cuddling up to Louis when they watch movies. Louis’s chest feels tight with how much he loves him, how _desperately_ he wants to preserve this: Harry feeling himself, feeling comfortable, his _baby. “_ Is touching you here okay?” he asks, gentle cupping his palm over the tented front of Harry’s dress slacks, which have bits of dead leaves and dirt clinging to them from lying face down and humping the earth. It’s so _hot,_ such a testament to his desperation, that Louis doesn't even want to brush it off. 

“Yes,” Harry says quietly, settling into the pressure of Louis’s hand, breath catching. “Maybe not my knot, not at first...m’ _so_ hard, though, want you to feel.” He unbuttons his pants and wiggles them down a bit, revealing the tight black boxer briefs that hug his cock, and, _fuck,_ even in the darkness, Louis can see how big he is, how thick, how _hard._

 _“Jesus,”_ Louis gasps, thumbing up the shaft, loving the heat of it, the way that Harry twitches and makes a small, low sound in the back of his throat. “Turned you on so much to have my knot in your mouth, didn’t it, baby?” 

“So much,” Harry whines, yelping when Louis gets his hand inside his briefs to stroke his cock slowly, carefully so as not to brush up against his thick knot just yet. “Loved the way it tasted.” 

“Oh, my god,” Louis breathes as his fingers close around the tip and slide through the absolute _mess._ It’s all over the inside of Harry’s underwear, too, sticky against the back of his hand, and he doesn't even _think_ when he says, “You’re _so,_ so wet for me, just dripping.” 

It makes Harry groan and buck and shiver as he buries his face in Louis’s shoulder, the whole of him reduced to trembles. “Oh, god,” he whispers, cock twitching in Louis’s hand. “Really?” 

Louis _sees_ what it’s doing to him, _feels_ it in his palm, under his lips where the pulse in Harry’s temple is speeding. So he pushes it, driven profoundly by the need to make Harry feel like his realest, truest self. “ _So_ wet, baby, so slick and messy,” he explains, smearing it around the crown and using it to lubricate the shift of his palm. “But I bet I could make you even messier. Bet I could make you _so_ wet, right here,” he adds, carefully pushing his hand lower, past Harry’s sac and to his taint, where he traces his finger gently. The skin is so soft here, crepe-paper smooth and sweat-dewey, and all he can think of is licking it, letting his spit drip down to collect. 

Harry’s whimpering, fucking the air, struggling to get his slacks down around his ass so that Louis can _really reach,_ touch him where they both want it most. While he’s maneuvering, Louis frees his hand to spit in it, and as soon as Harry’s got his pants and briefs around his thighs, Louis has his wrist between them again, fingers gently nudging up against soft heat. “Right here...I’d get you so fucking wet, baby,” he pants, rubbing Harry’s tight little hole just as he kisses him, pushes a mouthful of saliva past his lips to demonstrate, everything suddenly messy and frothy. Harry’s twitching against his fingers, cock leaking all over his stomach, and it's so _perfect_ that Louis’s eyes sting. “God, you feel so good...so ready for me...ready to be fucked and knotted,” he slurs into their kiss, swallowing every desperate, messy exhalation Harry gives him as he rubs at his hole. “I’d make you so sloppy first, lick you until you were dripping down your pretty thighs,” he gets out, breath choppy, voice hoarse and high and fractured over such filth. 

And, _yes,_ it feels so dirty to talk to Harry like this, to push his own spit-dampened finger up into his tight, perfect little ass, but it also feels _holy,_ feels right. What he’s meant to do, what he’s been destined for ever since he met Harry Styles in detention and knew that he _had_ to talk to him, had to spend the rest of his life doing anything to get his attention and keep it, like a flame protected from the wind in his cupped palms. _I know just how to fuck you, just how to take care of you,_ he thinks brokenly, kissing him deep and hard again and swallowing all his moans. _I know just what you need._

Harry wants it _so badly,_ is bearing down on Louis’s fingers, letting out these eager little sounds with every push and crook and shift. Louis is _drunk_ on the feel of him, velvet-hot and clutching inside, soft past the initial ring of muscle, _taking_ him so easily, such incredible _give_ for an alpha. Louis’s ass isn’t like this, but feeling Harry this way makes him _want_ to be, makes him want to open himself up into something more supple, pliant. “How does it feel?” he asks as he presses deeper, loving the way that Harry keens and bucks. 

“Like heaven,” he gasps, clenching around the width of Louis’s second knuckle. 

“Like I’m your alpha? And you’re my baby?” Louis asks, getting another finger wet with the build up of spit and saliva collecting at the fluttering clench of Harry’s hole. 

“ _Yes,”_ Harry sobs, spasming. “So good, s’perfect,” he sighs as Louis pushes in another finger, eyes squinting shut. “Burns so good, feels _full.”_

 _“_ Touch yourself and imagine how my cock will feel...how much fuller...how my _knot_ will feel,” Louis tells him, kissing his neck, his shoulder, whatever he can reach. Harry cries out and reaches for his own cock, tugging on it in rough, jerking strokes because his hands are trembling too much for grace. He smells fucking _divine,_ sharp and hormonal and musky like all alphas do, but with a sweetness to his breath, something sticky that Louis wants to lick into, like honey. “S’gonna be so tight inside your pretty ass, my knot’s gonna stretch you so good,” he groans, mouth open and panting on Harry’s cheek now as he fingers him. “When I come, you’ll be full of it, won’t you? So full it _would_ spill out, but my knot’ll plug you up, keep it all in you.” 

“Louis,” Harry moans, hole flexing madly around Louis’s fingers as he thrusts them deep and withdraws them a bit before pushing back in, rubbing insistently inside with his fingers crooked since Harry really seems to like that. “ _Louis,_ would you...would you knock me up?” is what comes out. 

And, _fuck,_ Louis has never thought about that specifically in the whole of this life, but all it took was Harry’s ripped-up, fucked-out voice grinding it out for him to _want it,_ for his cock to twitch at the thought of Harry all filled up and fertile for him. 

“ _Fuck,_ baby, yeah I’d come in you _so_ deep, knot you so long, I’d totally knock you up...make you a baby,” he murmurs, and just like that, Harry shoots off into his own hand and all over his stomach and dress shirt, white on white, like stars in a foggy sky. 

They lie there panting and tangled up, Louis’s fingers still in Harry’s ass, which is searing hot and still twitching, holding him in place to where he couldn’t pull out even if he wanted to. Which is _fine,_ honestly. He’s never been happier, so he just leaves them, even though his wrist is aching. Harry’s ribcage is expanding and contracting with each huge, ragged breath, so he focuses on that rhythm to try and calm his own breath, fingers curled in Harry’s sweat-damp hair. “M’covered in sticks…and mud,” is the first thing Harry says when he gets his voice back, nuzzling Louis’s shoulder. “I didn’t notice until now...all I could see and think about was you.” 

“ _God,”_ Louis sighs, squeezing Harry so tightly that his next breath is forced out of him in a huff. “I can’t _begin_ to tell you how fucking amazing it feels to just, like, talk with you again...have you close. I mean, the fucking bit is superb _,_ _too_ , of course, but I just…I missed this.” 

“M’so sorry about that...about before,” Harry mumbles. “I _knew_ I was doing a shit job of dealing with everything, but, god, I’ve wanted you to fuck me for so long, and the combination of trying to accept that it would never, ever happen _at the_ _same time_ my hormones were raging from presenting...I thought...I was _scared_ I’d just kiss you or something.” 

“Wish you had...woulda saved me a lot of tears,” Louis half-jokes, kissing Harry’s temple. “But it’s okay...worked out now, worked out perfectly.” 

“You’re still in me,” Harry realizes in a hush, reaching down between his thighs with come-sticky fingers to feel where they’re joined. “It’s amazing. Just...you’re _here_...you want me even though m’like _this.”_

“I _love_ you _because_ you’re all the ways you are,” Louis corrects, propping himself up on his arm so that he can carefully, carefully remove his fingers. There's a bit of a slow drag as he pulls them out, and Harry winces, but Louis kisses him through it with a soft, “My baby,” whispered into Harry’s lips, so everything feels as it should, as it’s meant to. 

“I love you,” Harry echoes as they pull apart, touching Louis’s hair, his cheeks, his mouth, all with delicate, awed strokes. “Uh, but we can’t go back to prom like this, m’covered in come and nature.” 

“Um, _fuck prom,_ come back to my house! You can sleep over again, _finally..._ we’ll get you showered and forget prom ever happened.” 

“Sounds perfect,” Harry grins, and, _fuck,_ it’s the first time since he presented that Louis has seen his lovely, dimply smile look authentic, and it makes him so happy that he feels like he could crack along a fault line and come apart. 

They stand up and put themselves back together, buckling their belts again, brushing their slacks off. Louis picks up his suit jacket and shakes it out, surprised to see his boutonnière is still intact, if not a little wilted. “Hey,” he says, prudently unpinning it and walking up to Harry, who seems confused. “I _would_ have gotten you a corsage, you know, but at least this is pink,” he stammers, grateful for the dark since he can feel himself blushing. “A pretty rose, for a pretty omega.” 

And Harry says nothing, he just throws his arms around Louis’s neck so hard that they stumble back as he rubs his smile into Louis’s neck, his hair, his cheek before kissing him. And it tastes like tears again, but there’s a sweetness to his breath, something sticky that Louis wants to lick into, like honey. 


End file.
